


what is (and isn't)

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Hurt, Inspector!Martín, M/M, Mention of Character Death, Multiverse, Swearing, hostage!Martín
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25881925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: A parallel universe is a hypothetical self-contained plane of existence, co-existing with one's own. The sum of all potential parallel universes that constitute reality is often called amultiverse.In all possible worlds, they meet.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 33
Kudos: 94





	what is (and isn't)

A parallel universe is a hypothetical self-contained plane of existence, co-existing with one's own. The sum of all potential parallel universes that constitute reality is often called a _multiverse_. 

**01.**

Sometimes they meet like this: two kids – because they are so young, so innocent – meeting on the streets of Buenos Aires. Fleeting glances, small smiles, picked pockets. It’s a chase, a challenge, a seduction. 

Sometimes they are like two strands of poison ivy slung around each other, climbing towards the sun, yet holding each other back. Thick as thieves, birds of a feather, two peas in a pod – there are many idioms in the English language, and yet none does their bond justice. 

Sometimes they part ways. It’s never easy, but it’s always cruel. The pain is unimaginable, as though they are being torn apart, limb by limb. As though a knife has wedged itself into their chests, _twisting_. 

(Andrés has never been shot, but he imagines that’s what turning his back on Martín feels like. Cold and harsh and wrong. Months later, he’ll bleed out on the floor of the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre and realize that he was wrong. Leaving Martín behind hurt much more.) 

It’s not always like that. If all the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players, then they slip into different roles each time. The artist and the engineer, the Spaniard and the Argentinian, the romantic and the realist. The lover and the beloved. 

In all possible worlds, they meet. 

  


**02.**

  


Sometimes they aren’t themselves when they meet. The Professor gets to Martín before Andrés does, and so they meet for the first time in a country house in Toledo, as Berlin and Palermo. 

They are weary of each other, as if they are trying to decide which one of them is the predator, which one the prey. They barely talk. Berlin thinks that Palermo is too loud, too selfish, too reckless. Palermo thinks that Berlin is too vain, too pretentious, too cold-blooded. 

And yet... 

On their first night, Tokyo writes the following in her diary: 

_The one looking at my_ _arse_ _is Berlin. Under arrest warrant. 27 robberies. Jewelries, auction houses and security vans. His biggest job: The Champs Elysees in Paris. 434 diamonds. He’s like a shark in a swimming pool. You can swim with him, but you’re never calm. And he is the boss in charge of the assault._

_The guy looking at his_ _arse_ _is Palermo, our engineer. He’s a wildcard. Egoistic and brash. If Berlin’s a shark, then Palermo is a feral tomcat. He should be neutered and sent on his way. But for some reason, the Professor puts up with his bullshit. He’s in charge of the machines._

It’s a tragedy in the making. 

Still, the Professor is certain they’ll make a great team. And he is right. Together, they are powerful. Beautiful. They are infallible, like young gods. A sight to behold, a force to be reckoned with. Trust me. 

If I say _trust me_ , you probably shouldn’t. See here: 

Berlin and Palermo are a powder keg and a lit match (take a guess as to who’s who). You can’t lock them up in a confined space, in a hermetically-sealed building, what were you thinking? Like a bottle of fine wine, you need to let them age together, at least for a while. 

It’s only a matter of time before Palermo raises his chin in defiance and tells Berlin to fuck off, before Berlin points a gun at Palermo’s heart and cocks it. The bottle explodes, boom boom. 

_Ciao_. 

  


**03.**

  


Sometimes Andrés makes the right choice. 

He kisses Martín in their chapel, holy holy. He tells Martín _come with me_ , tells him _we are meant for greatness_ , tells him _but we aren’t meant to part ways, es_ _imposible_. The words lie heavy on his tongue, dripping with love and lust and loyalty. He says _trust me_ , and Martín does. 

They go into the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre, together. They are proud and foolhardy, and like Icarus, they are blinded by the light. Destined to crash and burn. 

Imagine them side by side. Imagine them standing at the head of the stairs, smiling down at the cowering hostages and thinking that it’s better to reign in Hell, than to serve in Heaven. Imagine them working together, two maestros conducting a timeless symphony. 

Now imagine the policiá storming the place, and Andrés falling to the floor. 

(Why would you imagine such a thing? They were so close to making it out alive, to being happy.) 

  


**04.**

  


Andrés would rather be host than hostage, and so he offers them refreshments (stale water and tasteless coffee from the vending machine). He is quick to reassure them that they will get out of the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre alive, of course they will. Granted, they will be worse for wear and traumatized, but if nothing else, it’ll make for a thrilling anecdote to be shared at dinner parties. 

The silence that follows his words is deafening. Or at least it would be, if it weren’t for the full-blown laughing fit of one of the hostages. The sound is jarring, like nails on a chalkboard. It isn’t unpleasant – merely out of place. Not something you’d expect to hear in a room full of hostages trembling like pigs in a slaughterhouse. 

He lets his eyes roam over the sea of red jumpsuits to find the engineer. His shoulders are shaking with barely-suppressed laughter, even as the other hostages glare at him. Like he is a traitor, like he is a madman. 

Andrés’ feet carry him past the doe-eyed girl (the one who is eager to throw herself into his lap. He almost let her.), before coming to a stop in front of Martín. 

People think Andrés is vain for wanting to witness beauty – for standing in the Museo del Prado and shifting his gaze from the painting to his reflection in its frame. 

But in that moment, Andrés looks at Martín and Martín looks at Andrés, and it’s like they are the only people in the world. The only ones who matter. The only ones who understand. They are kindred spirits, soulmates. 

Andrés holds out a hand and Martín takes it, rises to his feet, rises to greatness by Andrés’ side. 

“What’s your name?” Andrés asks. 

Martín doesn’t hesitate. 

“Palermo.” 

(Martín looks surprisingly good in a Hawaiian shirt, sipping a Cuba Libre on a private beach in Palawan. The setting sun paints his skin a tangerine red, his cheeks flushed. Andrés smiles to himself, and thinks that Martín is the most precious thing he has ever stolen.) 

  


**05.**

  


Sometimes it’s a close call. They meet, but barely. They are strangers on a train, passing like two ships in the night. Their shoulders brush as Andrés exits the train at Firenze Santa Maria Novella to meet with his brother, and Martín will think – days and weeks and months later when he watches the news on _24 horas_ about an armed robbery taking place at the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre— 

_Doesn’t that face look familiar?_

(Martín loves seeing him on television, no matter the role. Sometimes Andrés is playing a robber in the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre. Other times he is the spurned fiancé in a soap opera or the star-crossed lover in a televised production of _Romeo and Juliet_. Acting, Andrés is always acting.) 

  


**06.**

  


Even though they are soulmates, they are not always on the same side. 

“Berlin,” Martín drawls as he enters the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre. 

The hail of bullets stops and when the smoke clears, one of Martín’s men forces Andrés down on his knees. He should look helpless and vulnerable, _defeated_. And yet his expression is defiant when he meets Martín’s eyes. He looks proud, like a martyr. 

“What a sight,” Martín says. He’s aiming for mockery, but the words come out slightly breathless instead. It must be the rush of adrenaline, the unadulterated thrill of triumph coursing through his bloodstream. He has won, after all. Knight takes rook. “There’s something arousing about a man on his knees, don’t you think?” 

“I doubt any man has ever taken pleasure from dropping to his knees for you, Inspector.” 

Martín’s howl of laughter echoes off the halls, sounding hollow, sounding cruel. 

“You think you’re being funny, hmm? Tell me: Do you see yourself as a victor? A hero? Fucking Robin Hood who tricked the system and led the policía on a wild goose chase?” 

He reaches out, his hands fisting in the front of Andrés' jumpsuit. His grip is surprisingly rough for someone who, just moments before, said _I want him alive_. 

(In another time and place he sees Andrés' shaking hands and says _I want him well_.) 

(In another time and place he watches Andrés marry someone else and says _I want him happy_.) 

“Listen here, you piece of shit. I was born to hunt you down and break you apart, and you can bet your ass that I’ll enjoy every minute of it.” 

Martín is a clever man, but he got it wrong this time. Because as he leads Andrés out of the Fábrica Nacional de Moneda y Timbre like a dog on a leash, he forgot one thing: 

Dogs bite. 

  


**07.**

  


Martín stares out the window as Andrés buttons up his shirt, as he slips out of the hotel room, as he returns to his wife, and Martín wonders how much longer he can do this before he falls apart, like one of Andrés’ marriages. 

  


**08.**

  


If tragedy follows in their wake, Death is their constant companion. No matter how much Martín begs and pleads and cries and presses his shaking hands against the bullet holes in Andrés’ chest, the gurgling fountain of red spilling forth from his heart won’t stop. 

It’s inevitable. 

Andrés will always die first. 

His lips twitch into a smile as he whispers Martín’s name, one more time. It’s the last word on his lips, the last thing Andrés tastes. The last thing on his mind, before he slips away. 

Martín will follow him, always. 

Sometimes it takes him a while. He is old and grey by the time he reaches for Andrés’ hand, his chest split open by yearning. Other times he follows Andrés, right after. Like a star-crossed lover, his loyal second-in-command, his soulmate. 

(Sometimes Andrés dies before time can do its part. Before it can bring them back together. Martín watches – on the news, worlds away from him, helpless – as five bullets pierce Andrés’ heart. He thinks that it must be poetic justice or dramatic irony or simply proof that the universe fucking hates him.) 

  


**09.**

  


Sometimes Andrés doesn’t die. 

Time brings them back together, returns them to each other, just as it should be. Martín’s face breaks into a grin each time, his eyes filling with tears as a lump forms in his throat. 

By the time they find each other again, Andrés has been captured and tortured and broken down by the policía or Interpol or the FBI – it doesn’t matter; there are so many who want him dead. What matters is this: His smile is crooked when he spreads his arms, wide and welcoming, and Martín melts into him right away. 

They are both broken, but no matter how often Andrés thinks that Martín has moved on, no matter how often Martín thinks that Andrés won't want him like this, damaged, they always leave the Banco de España hand-in-hand, arm-in-arm, side-by-side. 

  


**10.**

  


One way or another, time will bring them back together. 

Trust me. 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I felt like it was time to grow up and accept that I won't ever write a 50k fic with Inspector!Martín, no matter how much I crave it.
> 
> Thank you, [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/works) and [Shotgun_Cake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shotgun_Cake/works), for letting me pick your brains.
> 
> As always, you can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/sorrydearie). Come and say hi.


End file.
